Secrets and Lies: He's a Bad Boy\He's Just a Cowboy (27 page)

“This isn’t the kind of advice I’d expect from you.”

“I know. But I think it’s important to be happy and follow your heart.”

Rachelle thought she read something more in her sister’s serious gaze, but Heather stepped off the porch and nearly slipped on the bottom step. “I guess we’d better fix that,” she said, eyeing the rotting wood. “I’ll talk to Mom about it.” She hauled Adam to her car. Rachelle stood on the porch and waved; Jackson, who had lingered in the doorway, stood next to her. They watched as Heather’s sleek car pulled out of the drive.

“I thought you’d end up like her, you know. Husband, kids, house with a white picket fence and a station wagon in the garage. The whole bit.”

“It didn’t work out that way.” They walked into the house together and Rachelle was aware of the ambiance of the little cottage—the fire, the near-empty bottle of wine, the cozy rooms with shadowy corners. The curtains were drawn, the lights turned down. The setting was too intimate, inviting romance. Though what she and Jackson shared was as far from romance as a couple could get.

“Why not? Why didn’t you settle down?”

Her heart ached a little and she felt him near her, smelled his masculine scent. “Didn’t meet the right guy, I guess.”

At the table, he turned a chair around and straddled it. “What about this David? Is he the right guy?”

Rachelle couldn’t lie. She shook her head. “I don’t think so. What about you?”

He laughed, his eyes glinting. “Maybe I just haven’t met the right woman.”

“I don’t think there is a right woman for you.”

“Oh, no?” His gaze moved lazily up her body, inch by inch. Her heart began to hammer, and to break the seductive spell he was weaving, she began stacking dishes in the sink. She should tell him to leave, to just go jump on his motorcycle and leave her alone. But she didn’t. Because, damn it, she didn’t want him to leave. There was something compelling about Jackson, something innately dangerous and yet strong and safe. She was pulled apart when she was with him, wanting to prove her independence one instant while ready to lean on him the next.

She turned on the water, nearly scalded herself and swore softly. Jackson unnerved her. She couldn’t do anything right when he was near.

She didn’t hear him approach but sucked in her breath when his arms surrounded her waist and he pressed the flat of his hands against her abdomen. A warm desire spread through her and she swallowed hard. She didn’t want him to touch her, knew the dangerous territory to which it would lead, and yet she couldn’t form the words to make him stop.

“We don’t need to be at each other’s throats,” he said, pulling her closer still, breathing in the scent of her hair.

She felt her resistance ebb as his smell and touch enveloped her. Her buttocks rested against his thighs and she felt his hardness.

Deep emotions stirred within her, but thoughts of refusing him had already disappeared. His lips were on her throat as he turned her in his arms.

“I told myself I’d never kiss you again,” he admitted, his voice a low rasp. “But even then I knew I was lying.”

His mouth found hers with a hunger that stole the breath from her lungs. She closed her eyes and let the kiss consume her, knowing the fires he was stoking deep in her soul were sure to burn hotter still.

She opened her mouth to him, let him carry them both to the floor, and when he began to remove her clothes, she didn’t stop. Instead her own fingers discovered the buttons of his shirt and the snap at the waistband of his jeans. She touched the naked wonder of him and explored each supple curve of his body. Her fingers traced his spine and pushed his pants over his buttocks as he disposed of her clothes.

Firelight cast flickering shadows over their bodies and sweat began to collect on their skin.

Jackson kissed her eyes, her lips, her throat, her breasts, and she tasted the salt on his skin as she kissed him back. Their arms and legs twined and she was so hot, she could barely breathe.

He stretched out beside her, one big hand resting on the curve of her waist. His eyes held hers and she felt as if she were losing herself to him. She tried to break the spell, but was unable. “Make love to me, Rachelle,” he whispered, and kissed the fine shell of her ear.

She moaned her response, her arms winding around his neck as she dragged his head close to hers and met his eager mouth with her own. Staring up at him, she watched as his lean body moved ever so slightly so that he was astride her.

“I can’t stop this,” he said in near apology.

“Neither can I.” Again she kissed him, her tongue delving deep into his mouth. With a shudder, he urged her legs apart with his knees.

“I can’t get enough of you,” he admitted as he plunged into her warmth. It was as close as an admission of love as she was going to get, and Rachelle clung to him, wrapping her arms and legs around him and meeting the passion of his thrusts and closing her eyes as the tide of desire swept her closer and closer to that whirling climax that ripped through her soul.

With a cry, Jackson fell upon her, flattening her breasts and breathing hard. He twined his fingers in her hair and held her face between his hands. Gazing down at her in wonder, he kissed her forehead. “I didn’t plan this, you know.”

“Neither did I.”

“I didn’t want it.”

“I know.”

“But I just can’t seem to stop. I tell myself to keep my hands off you. I give myself a list of reasons to stay away from you that is completely logical. But I can’t stay away.”

She smiled softly and touched the corner of his mouth. “Neither can I, Counselor,” she said with a giggle. “It’s crazy…I know that as much—maybe more—than you do.”

“What’re we going to do?”

She looked up at him and raised a wicked eyebrow. “For the rest of the night?”

“For the rest of our lives?”

A thick lump formed in the back of her throat. She could barely breathe. “I think we should take it slow.”

“Slower than twelve years?”

She had to laugh then. To her surprise, he rolled off her, picked her up and carried her stark naked into the back bedroom. “I think it’s time we did this properly,” he said, dropping her onto the old double bed.

“You? Proper?” She giggled again, and this time he flung himself down on the bed beside her. “Don’t make me laugh.”

“Actually, I was thinking of making you do a lot of things, lady. But laughing wasn’t near the top of the list.”

“What is?” she asked, a naughty spark lighting her eyes.

“I’ll show you.” And then, throwing the covers over them, he kissed her hard and didn’t stop for a long, long time.

* * *

T
HE NEXT MORNING
R
ACHELLE
awoke to the smells of hot coffee and burned toast. She touched the bed where Jackson had lain, but the sheets were cold. Stretching, she smiled to herself. Waking up with Jackson felt right. She threw on her robe and found Jackson seated at the table, sipping coffee and staring at the contents of a file folder. He glanced up at her approach. “‘Morning.”

Spying his work spread out on the table, she said, “Look, before you bury yourself in that, I think you should know that I lied to you.”

He stiffened, his eyes narrowing a fraction. “What about?”

“About the fact that I really do need an interview with you…my editor was insistent. You were so damned arrogant about it, I couldn’t admit that you were right.” She tossed her hair from her face. “Forgive me?”

He tapped a pen to his lips. “I guess,” he said, then grinned.

“What’s this?” she asked, covering her mouth to stifle a yawn as she gazed at the file folder that held his attention.

“Homework.”

“From New York?” She wandered over to the coffee-maker and poured herself a cup of the fresh brew.

“Not exactly.” He leaned back in his chair and smiled up at her. “I’ve had a change of heart. Remember when I asked you to stay out of my business?”

“How could I forget? Subtle isn’t your middle name.”

“All right, all right, so maybe I made a mistake.”

“What? An apology?” She feigned surprise as she shoved her hair from her face.

His eyes narrowed in good-natured anger. “Are you going to hear me out or give me a bad time?”

“Hopefully a little of both.” Cradling her cup, she plopped down in a chair next to his. “What’s this?”

“The information I got from a private investigator.”

“On?” she asked, her stomach dropping. Had he hired a detective to look into her life?

“On everyone who could’ve been involved in Roy’s death.” All the teasing light dimmed in his eyes. “You’re here, as well as your friends.”

Rachelle’s stomach knotted as she began scanning the individual reports. Jackson was right. Her name fairly leapt off the page—along with her phone number, address, Social Security number and California driver’s license number. A credit report and her credit history came next, then a quick résumé of her accomplishments, her education and her current working address and job description.

With the turn of each page, she became more furious; she felt that Jackson had asked a perfect stranger to put together her life, file and label it accurately, then stuff it into a neat envelope for Jackson to dissect as he pleased.

The typewritten biography started with her birth, her parents, her sister, even including how much money her father and mother made. She read about her parents’ divorce, her father’s affair with a younger woman and her own involvement with Jackson. The report mentioned her termination of employment at the
Clarion
and the fact that she gave up most of her extracurricular activities after the night Roy Fitzpatrick died. The investigation went further, following her through college and her career. David was mentioned, as was her boss, Marcy, and friends she’d made over the years. Attached to the back page were photocopies of newspaper reports, primarily from the
Gold Creek Clarion,
about her as a witness—the sole witness—who could get Jackson Moore off the hook for Roy Fitzpatrick’s murder.

By the time she’d finished reading, her insides were shredding. “Thorough, isn’t he?” she asked, her lips pressed hard against each other. She felt betrayed by Jackson. He had no right to order out a copy of her life and study it as if it were some new cure for a fatal disease.

“I hope he is. Otherwise I paid him a lot of money for nothing.”

“Except to get your jollies from reading the dirt on everyone in town.”

He looked up sharply. “You’re offended?”

“Wouldn’t you be?”

“I’m only trying to get to the bottom of this.”

“By having me investigated? You didn’t trust me—even after I stood up for you.”

He sighed, set his cup down and leaned back in his chair. As if the strain of sitting for hours was beginning to get to him, he rubbed his eyes. “I didn’t want to put any restraint on Timms. I figured I needed a fresh outlook on an old crime. So I told him to look into everyone involved, including myself.”

“That’s crazy.”

He shuffled through a pile of reports and tossed one to her. Sure enough, it was labeled Jackson Moore and listed his address, phone number and place of employment.

“I don’t understand… .”

His smile was cynical. He motioned to the report. “Read it if you want. It paints a pretty grim picture. For years I thought the police just had it in for me, that they were somehow on Fitzpatrick’s payroll, but if you read the facts objectively, you can see why I was the prime suspect. However,” he added, before draining his cup, “I’m not giving up on the bribe theory. Fitzpatrick hates my guts.”

She looked over the reports, reading familiar names: Thomas Fitzpatrick, Brian Fitzpatrick, June Fitzpatrick, Laura Chandler Fitzpatrick, Carlie Surrett, Erik Patton, Scott McDonald, Melanie Patton and on and on. It was an incredible compilation of history.

She finished her coffee and walked into the kitchen to grab the glass pot and return with it. As she poured coffee into Jackson’s empty cup, she glanced at him. “Does all of this help?”

“I don’t know. But I’ve discovered some interesting facts.” He grabbed her wrist as she finished pouring. His fingers caught on the tie of her robe and he gently tugged, helping the knot to loosen. “By the way, you look great.”

She rolled her eyes and clutched her robe closed. Without makeup, her hair a tangled mess, she thought “great” was a tad overdoing it. Nonetheless his hasty compliment brought a small smile to her lips. She finished pouring and took the coffeepot back to the kitchen to heat. “What interesting facts?” she asked as she returned to her chair.

“Erik Patton and Roy weren’t that crazy for each other. His sister, Melanie, was supposedly engaged to Roy when he took up with Laura. Melanie even tried to trap him and claim she was pregnant, but she was lying apparently.”

Rachelle thought back to that night and Erik’s sullenness; he had seemed preoccupied, but he’d still definitely been in the Fitzpatrick corner. She remembered him laughing when Jackson, trying to flee, couldn’t start his motorcycle.
Well, look what you found—Roy’s little piece… . You’re not gonna get far,
he’d predicted before calling to Roy.

“Erik thought I was Roy’s girl,” she said with a shudder.

“Erik probably knew that Roy was using Laura to get to you. It doesn’t change the fact that there was bad blood between the two supposed best friends.” He glanced up at her and shoved his hair from his eyes impatiently. “Puts a different slant on things, doesn’t it?”

“I’d say so.”

They then spent the next hour going through the files, scrutinizing the secrets of Gold Creek. Melanie Patton was hired by Fitzpatrick right out of high school as a receptionist and with each passing year, she was promoted until, at the age of twenty-nine, she had become Thomas’s private secretary and administrative assistant.

Her brother Erik, too, had been employed by the Fitzpatricks, or their relatives, the Monroes, ever since he’d dropped out of college, two months after Roy’s death.

Rachelle took a shower, dressed, then read the private investigator’s reports until her head swam. What she read only confirmed what she already knew: Gold Creek was a small town and most of the local families had roots that went back for generations. People married, had children and watched those children grow up to marry someone in town only to start the cycle over again.